


Hold On (I still need you)

by bakers_impala221



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Timeline, Angst, BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Canon Compliant, Canon Related, Canon Universe, Depression, Hospital, John Watson - Freeform, John and Sherlock in love, Johnlock - Freeform, Love Confession, M/M, Post-Canon, Sherlock - Freeform, Sherlock Holmes - Freeform, Song fic, Soulmates, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, The Lying Dective, angst and sadness, drugs and overdose, hold on -chord overstreet, season 4 fix-it-fic, tld, unspoken feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-08
Updated: 2018-10-18
Packaged: 2019-03-15 10:31:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13611513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bakers_impala221/pseuds/bakers_impala221
Summary: After the fight in the hospital in TLD, Sherlock and John don't make contact. A few days later John goes to see him to talk, but instead finds him unconscious on the bathroom floor."  I pull you in to feel your heartbeat,Can you hear me screaming "please don't leave me"Hold on, I still want you  "





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to Abigail (@lordofthesuperlock, on Instagram)  
> Thank you for sending me the song that inspired me to write this story :D
> 
> The usual warnings:  
> Trigger warning; mentions of suicide/attempted suicide, drug use and overdose

  John walked up the stairs of 221B, his heart beat fast in his ears and his breathing uneven in anxiety. He glanced back at Mrs. Hudson, who was standing in the foyer and smiling up at him sadly. He offered a small, grateful smile before continuing his way up into his old rooms.

  When he reached the top of the stairs he glanced around. His room was up the stairs to the right, the living room door right in front of him, and the door to the kitchen placed to his left, hanging ajar.

  He turned left and walked through the open door, listening to the nostalgic sound of the creak as it swung open slightly and allowed way for him to pass. The floorboards sighed softly under his footsteps as he walked in softly, slowly, glancing around for signs of life.

  With a quick scan of the table he stopped dead for a moment, the sight of blood flashing in front of his actual and his mind’s eye. The blood dripped of the specimen -a body of some sort of dead animal, deformed beyond recognition. The still-wet blood ran down the face from the eyes almost like tear-tracks.

 

  Sherlock was pushed up against the wall, fear burning in his eyes, his face covered in blood as he was hit over and over again.

_Loving and fighting._

John shuddered, shaking his head slightly and blinking his eyes repeatedly in order to clear his vision.

 He wandered into the living room slowly, his eyes scanning the room as though seeing it all again in new light. He walked to the chair by the window and put his hands on the backrest, leaning his weight onto it, sighing as he watched the quiet street through the glass to his right. Everything was silent and he suddenly found himself very self-aware, consciously aware of the flutter of his eyelashes in the sun with every blink, with the soft sound of his breathing as his chest rose and fell slightly, breathing in the musky, home-like smell of 221B.

  Then the spell was lost as yelling issued from somewhere down the street. John’s eyes trailed along it to find the source, stopping at a young-looking teenager yelling at someone of roughly the same age.

  He couldn’t make out much, but as they drew nearer, the sound came more and more clear.

   ‘I didn’t do it!’ one yelled, the crying evident in their voice.

   ‘Yes you did!’ the other cried back.

  They shook their head and turned away, walking faster down the street. John didn’t see what happened afterwards. The world faded away for a brief moment, and instead he was standing over a broken man as he lay on the floor, bleeding and bruised and lost.

   ‘It’s okay,’ he said, his voice soft. ‘Let him do what he wants. He’s entitled.’

  Then Sherlock looked up at him, his voicing breaking slightly, ‘I killed his wife.’

  John started for a moment before looking him straight in the eye, his gaze fierce and determined.

   ‘Yes you did.’

_Accusing, denying_

  John opened his eyes again and his gaze lowered to the floor in shame. Sherlock hadn’t come for him again after that. John hadn’t wanted him to.

  He’d tried staying away too. It took every ounce of will in his body to tell himself not to text him, not to come over. To make some sort of contact with the one person he had left.

  It took three days. Three days of overwhelming shame and agony, before he finally gave in and prepared himself slowly for departure to meet once again with his old best friend.

   _I can’t imagine a world with you gone._

John had changed his mind at least eight times by the time the cab got to 221B. For a moment he’d sat and stared at the building, considering one more time from the safety of the car whether or not it was a good idea to come back again.

  But then the cabbie had asked him impatiently if he was ‘getting out or not?’ and he’d turned to them with a quick, ‘uh, yes,’ and paid his fair, hopping out of the car and onto the pavement he hadn’t stood on for months.

  He glanced at the ground as he shuffled on his feet uncomfortably, acutely aware of the fact that Sherlock might be able to see him from within the dark windows of the second storey, high up above him, waiting for him to come in and join him in the darkness.

   _The joy and the chaos, the demons we’re made of_

_I’d be so lost if you left me alone._

  John leaned back off of the chair. With his feet planted flat on the ground, he glanced down the hall and into his friend’s bedroom, craning his neck slightly to see through the crack in the slightly-open door.

  He moved his feet again, eyes glued on the door as he got nearer and nearer, and he almost missed it -would have, if he didn’t know this flat like the back of his own hand. The shadow under the bathroom door cast by the light from outside through the small window.

  There was something stretched out across the floor, long enough that it cast a shadow that reached from either end of the door frame.

  John walked over to the door, and knocked lightly. ‘Sherlock?’ he called quietly.

  A soft sound came from inside the room, and John stepped back to inspect the door shoe, catching the small movement of the shadow underneath it.

  His breath caught in his throat as the panic rose in his chest. He surged forward and grabbed the door handle, pulling it once downwards and turning away when it locked up underneath his hand.

  He glanced around the room, his eyes stopping at Sherlock’s bedroom door. He rushed towards it, turning left sharply once through and trying the door handle on the glass door to the bathroom. When that failed, he looked up again, frantically trying to come up with a solution, when his eyes caught on what lay behind the glass. Sherlock lay on the floor, his knees curled up to his chest, curled in on himself in pain.

  A rush of adrenaline surged through his veins as John took a step back and raised his leg into the air. With a swing, his foot collided with the door and it swung open.

   _You locked yourself in the bathroom_

_Lying on the floor when I break through_

  Not hesitating for a second, John ran forwards and crouched down over his friend, attempting to calm himself by pushing aside the panic overwhelming him and clouding his thoughts and judgement.

  He took a few deep breaths and pressed his fingers to his neck, relaxing ever-so-slightly when he felt the weak heartbeat against his fingertips.

  He felt for his back pocket, heart still beating loudly in his ears as he pulled out his phone and dialled _999,_ speaking as clearly as he could into the speaker.

   ‘Hi, my friend’s overdosed and needs the hospital,’ he said.

   ‘Where are you?’

  Everything froze around him for a moment and silence filled the air. John’s ears filled it with a high-pitched ringing sound that muddled his thoughts, and it felt almost like the ground had opened up beneath him and he was falling.

  Then he was grounded once more by the sound emanating from the phone still pressed against his ear.

   ‘Sir? Sir, I need you to remain calm and answer me.’

   ‘What? Oh-uh, Baker Street…’ he stuttered. ‘221B Baker Street.’

  For a second the line went silent and John thought the call had been cut off, but then the voice returned, ‘Sherlock Holmes?’

   ‘Yeah? Ou- His flat.’

   ‘The ambulance is on its way. Please stay on the line.’

  John pulled the phone away from his ear and put on the speaker phone, then placed it on the floor behind him.

  He shuffled over towards his friend, reaching out again to check for a pulse. When he found he was still breathing, he leaned down, laying his forehead on his shoulder and breathing deeply.

  Then he pulled back slightly and wrapped his arms around him as best he could, burying his face in his arm.

   ‘Sherlock,’ he croaked out quietly. ‘Sherlock, please don’t leave me.’

   _I pull you in to feel your heartbeat_

_Can you hear me screaming please don’t leave me?_

John could still remember the look in his eyes as he’d said that. Sherlock lying on the floor, his gaze dropped to the ground a few feet in front of him. Shame. Regret.

  He could remember how his heart had shattered in his chest. The grief of mourning his wife still burning softly in the back of his mind, renewed and intensified with the pain of realising that now his best friend had betrayed him.

  He hadn’t realised Sherlock thought he killed her. He hadn’t really thought of it that way up until that moment. But Sherlock had lured him in so carelessly, convinced him that he was absolutely right about Culverton Smith, that he had to be captured for his crimes. But he’d been so caught up in the game that he hadn’t thought that maybe Sherlock really was just high and delusional.

  But then Smith had pointed it out and Sherlock had a scalpel in his hand as though posed to attack and suddenly Culverton Smith was right and, though perhaps a little creepy, utterly innocent of murder, and John was _angry._

All he’d wanted that day was the chance to have his life back for a moment, because in his mourning he’d lost the thrill of the danger that kept him alive, and Sherlock had almost given it back to him.

  But he’d failed that. He failed saving Mary. Sherlock had betrayed him. And all he’d been able to think about was the hate that burned through his veins at the thought that he could be tricked so many times by one, stupid man, who’d ruined his life in far too many ways to be forgiven anymore.

So he’d hit him. Because he was angry and had nothing else to do but punish the man who’d betrayed him one time too many. And he’d hit him. Because at least if he did, he could blame someone -something- else for his pain.

  And he’d hit him and hit him and hit him until he bled, and his eyes were filled with a fear he’d never seen in Sherlock’s eyes before -that never, in a million years, had he expected to be the cause of. But he still hit him. He hit him until he had fallen to the floor. And then even then he didn’t stop. He kicked him over and over again.

   ‘What are you doing!? Stop it!’ he’d screamed.

  Then he’d felt hands around his arms, dragging him back and away from the broken man lying on the floor, and finally he’d been able to properly witness the damage he’d done.

  But then Sherlock had said the worst thing he could have possibly said. As though John had had the right to hurt him; as though Sherlock had _deserved_ that.

   ‘Let him do what he wants. He’s entitled. I killed his wife.’

  And John had said the only thing he could, because he was never good with talking about things, and _to hell with it_ because everyone already thought he had the right to mourn his dead wife; to act out on his anger. So instead of trying to explain the truth, he said, ‘yes you did,’ and watched his friend’s face fall in shame and despair.

John clutched Sherlock’s arm and shook him slightly. ‘Hey, Sherlock, if you can hear me, please… listen.’

  He shuffled forwards slightly and whispered again. ‘Hold on. Please just hold on for me. I still want you. It doesn’t matter what I said to you before, I never meant that. I can’t lose you again. Please come back, I still need you. I’ve always needed you.’

  He wrapped his fingers around the cold, motionless ones and leaned in slightly towards him, ‘I promise you when you wake up I’ll make it right.’

   _I swear to love you all my life._

 ‘Just hold on, I still need you.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loving and fighting  
> Accusing, denying  
> I can't imagine a world with you gone  
> The joy and the chaos, the demons we're made of  
> I'd be so lost if you left me alone
> 
> You locked yourself in the bathroom  
> Lying on the floor when I break through  
> I pull you in to feel your heartbeat  
> Can you hear me screaming "please don't leave me"
> 
> Hold on, I still want you  
> Come back, I still need you  
> Let me take your hand, I'll make it right  
> I swear to love you all my life  
> Hold on, I still need you
> 
> \--Chord Overstreet


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long to post. I tried a few times but couldn't write anything.  
> Thanks for bearing with me <3

  The engine rumbled beneath him, rocking him backwards and forwards as they drove closer and closer to the hospital, and further and further from home.

  It felt endless, the near-silence that filled his ears as the rest of the world’s noise were too muffled to make out. Staring at the motionless body on the bed in front of him, he swallowed thickly past the lump in his throat in a half-hearted attempt at unblocking his ears.

   _A long endless highway, you’re silent beside me_

_Driving a nightmare I can’t escape from._

 

  Then a face appeared right in front of him, blocking his view of his best friend, making indistinct noises as their mouth opened and closed quickly.

  Then their words became sharper and sharper until he could just make them out, ‘John? John!’

  He started, then looked up and let his eyes focus on the doctor talking to him.

  ‘We’re here,’ they said comfortingly, ‘we need to get out.’

  John looked around, realising for the first time that the vehicle had stopped driving. He looked to his left. The doors were open and the cold air breathed onto his face, making him shiver slightly without his coat. He then looked to his right, noticing for the first time that Sherlock was gone.

  He glanced back outside and caught the doctors wheeling him inside through the automatically opening doors, his heart beating loudly in his ears in fear.

   _They took you away on a table_

He closed his eyes for a moment to clear his vision, then stood up slowly and dropped out of the ambulance, following the doctor to an empty waiting room.

  They sat him on one of the chairs lined up in a row against the plain white wall and spoke. Words like, ‘ _critical condition_ ’ and ‘ _can’t be sure_ ’ managed to make their way through the ringing in his ears, but other than that, he wasn’t listening.

  When the hall went noticeably silent, John looked up to the expectant look on the doctor’s face and nodded at them as though he’d understood. They asked if he was okay to wait on his own and he nodded again, relieved when the footsteps sounded from down the hall, gradually getting further from him until turning a corner and fading to silence.

  The silence was inevitably filled with an unpleasant high-pitched ringing. He looked around nervously, his hands and leg shaking with anxiety.

  Suddenly he stood up, adrenaline working it’s way through his body. He glanced around again quickly before walking briskly to his right for a few steps and stopping, turning around 180 degrees and taking a few more steps in the other direction, breathing in and out sharply as he thought through the possible outcomes.

   _I pace back and forth as you lay still_.

  He tried to think rationally, but all thoughts of logic went right out the window as his mind took him to vivid hallucinations of various horrific outcomes. Voices spoke in his head all at once, making him feel sick with dizziness.

  ‘ _I’m sorry for your loss.’ ‘Regret to inform you…’ ‘Overdose caused serious heart attack…’ ‘Didn’t make it.’ ‘No signs of recovery.’ ‘Condolences.’_

And then the worst of the voices; Mycroft’s accusation, his voice filled with disgust and contempt: ‘ _You did this. You killed my brother.’_

John pulled at his hair in panic, moving quickly over to the chair to brace himself as his legs began to give out beneath him. A sudden wave of nausea washed through him and he rested his head against the chair, the fabric muffling the sound of his voice as he shouted.

  ‘ ** _Please don’t leave me!’_**

**** _They pull you in to feel your heartbeat_

_Can you hear me screaming, “Please don’t leave me”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A long endless highway, you're silent beside me  
> Drivin' a nightmare I can't escape from  
> Helplessly praying, the light isn't fadin'  
> Hiding the shock and the chill in my bones
> 
> They took you away on a table  
> I pace back and forth as you lay still  
> They pull you in to feel your heartbeat  
> Can you hear me screaming, "please don't leave me"
> 
> \--Chord Overstreet


	3. Chapter 3

  John was woken hours later by the gentle shake of a nurse’s hand on his shoulder.

   ‘Doctor Watson,’ the voice spoke, translating as hazy through the fog of sleep clouding his mind.

   ‘Doctor Watson,’ it repeated, snapping him properly out of his other world of unconscious ignorance and back into the darkness of reality.

  He opened his eyes slowly, the white light of the hospital blinding his tired eyes as they blinked against the light, attempting to adjust to the change from the darkness of the backs of his eyelids.

  The nurse waited for him to look up at them without blinking excessively, before beginning to read out from the paper clipped to a clipboard in their left hand, their right hand resting by their leg from where it had dropped when they’d taken it away from his shoulder.

  John listened as carefully as he could through the fogginess in his head, frowning slightly as he tried to make sense of the confusing situation. He was vaguely aware of where he was; a bright room, sitting in one of the uncomfortable, uniformed chairs lined up against a plain white wall. He could make some sense of that, but it still felt as though he were missing something extremely important.

   ‘We took him ( _him? Who?_ ) into the emergency and had his stomach pumped, he survived but has some serious liver failure and his…’

  The nurse’s words drowned out to a high-pitched ringing and John could feel his hand begin to shake slightly. His vision blurred and he tried to speak, but his voice caught in the lump in his throat.

   _Oh, god._

  The nurse reached out his arm to his shoulder to ground him, speaking loudly and clearly to catch his attention.

   ‘John? John. John, look at me,’ they said slowly. ‘ _Breathe_. It’s going to be okay. Sherlock will be okay.’

  A minute or so passed before John could look back up from the ground in front of the chair and back into the eyes of the nurse crouched at eye-level in front of him. When his head felt clearer and the heaviness and uncomfortable sick feeling left his stomach enough, he nodded sharply to indicate he was okay.

  The nurse sighed quietly before standing up and asking, ‘do you want to go in and see him now?’ and they received a sombre nod in reply, before he stood up and followed their brisk walk down the hall and into one of the wards.

 

  John followed the nurse into the room slowly, his eyes instantly catching onto the pale, unconscious figure stretched out across a white-sheeted hospital bed, several chords strapped into his hand, and a heart monitor beeping reassuringly steadily beside the bed. John approached him, letting out the breath he hadn’t realise he was holding, and was attacked by palpitation for a few seconds in response, before his body calmed down slightly.

  He was snapped out of his stupor by the soft screeching of a hospital chair -not unlike the one he’d recently woken in- against the plain white surface of the floor. His eyes darted to the relatively large figure rising from his seat, dressed in a grey suit and tie and looking uncharacteristically tired and disheveled from the hours of stress the situation had put him under.

  He began speaking, and for a second John was startled, as if half-expecting different -much more inculpating- words to come from his mouth, but instead he spoke in a much more guilt-ridden and tired than accusing tone.

   ‘He appears to be doing well.’

  Unsure of how to express his gratitude, John nodded silently in response.

   ‘He seems to have overdosed on some form of hallucinogenic substance the hospital has yet to identify.’ John could practically see the word ‘ _idiots_ ’ form on his face as Mycroft barely refrained from shattering his politeness to voice his irritation.

  John nodded and hummed in understanding, looking around awkwardly to escape the lines of worry reflected off himself and onto the face in front of him, permeating his view and stressing him slightly more.

  After a moment of uncomfortable silence, Mycroft spoke again.

   ‘I’m glad you’re here, John.’ John forced his eyes to meet the other man’s. ‘He’ll want to see you.’ Mycroft went silent, his expression filling in the silence with the unspoken words: _despite what you may think_.

  Then Mycroft gave him an almost imperceptible nod and walked out of the room, back into the hallway and out to wherever he had to now be, the silent words still rung through the quiet room in response.

_No, he won’t._


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I apologise extensively for the long wait for this...  
> I mean, seven months? That's a long time.  
> Anyway, I hope this can make up for it ?  
> Enjoy, and (please) feel free to leave comments for me. They keep me going, haha

  John approached the bed slowly, his eyes glued to the man in the foreign and unnaturally white bed, his heart breaking slowly in his chest as he got closer and closer to the unmoving embodiment of his vice and contrition.

  The sound of his footsteps and the heart monitor’s beeping were the only sounds in the room as he edged closer and closer to the ruins of what was once an eccentric, enigmatic masterpiece in which he’d delicately destroyed. With the guilt settled heavily in his chest, he sat down in the recently-vacated chair, the force of gravity making his knees too weak to carry the weight of his burden.

  He sat awkwardly on the edge of the seat, half desperate to give in to the exhaustion in his bones and lean back into the chair to regain his strength. The other half tempted to reach his hand out to hold the long, pale hands; to thread his fingers through them.

  Instead, he reached out his hand and rested it on his friend’s, cupping it beneath his palm. He leaned forward and rested his free arm on his knee and whispered softly. ‘Hold on.’

   _I still want you_.

   _Come back, I still need you._

Then, giving into the urge almost thoughtlessly, he shifted his hand beneath the other, and manoeuvred his own so their fingers were intertwined, the solid presence of the other man’s hand against his far more comforting than even the steady beeping attempt at encouragement on behalf of the heart monitor beside him. A wave of something akin to calmness washed over him tentatively.

   _Let me take your hand, I’ll make it right._

_I swear to love you all my life_

  Standing up a little to pull the chair forwards, inching it closer to the man in front of him, he settled back in his seat, his left hand still clutching the other like a lifeline, not willing to sever such a seemingly necessary connection. Then he leaned forward slightly to whisper again.

  ‘Look, Mycroft says that you’ll want to see me, but… well, Mycroft’s not always right about everything, is he?’ he said, his smile half humoured and half self-depreciative. ‘And because he’s probably not this time, I have to tell you something…’

  He shuffled forward again, still refusing to let go, even when his arm hurt slightly at the new angle. He took another breath slowly. ‘I’m going to make this right. I’ll do whatever you want; if you want me to leave, stay, beg for forgiveness, I don’t care, but, I’ll do whatever it takes, you just have to promise me one thing, Sherlock. One thing.’

  ‘Don’t die. Just that. One more miracle.’ He reached up to gently move a dark, stray curl resting on his closed eyelid. ‘You did it for me last time. It took you a while, but you came through, and-’ he inhaled sharply, ‘I can’t lose you again. I’ll do whatever it takes, but you can’t let me lose you again.’

_Hold on, I still need you._

_‘_ I need you,’ he choked out softly.

John woke to the sound of frantic footsteps all around him. He opened his eyes slowly, wincing internally at the pain in his back as he sat up slowly from the uncomfortable position he’d succumbed to sleep in. He blinked away the sleep slowly, his exhaustingly foggy mind unable to catch up quickly enough with the situation, staring uncomprehendingly at his left arm hanging awkwardly over the armrest, bent backwards limply under the pressure of gravity, outstretched in front of him as though having failed a desperate attempt to reach for some invisible or non-tangible thing lurking in front of him just out of reach.

  Dismissing it, he looked up, his eyes darting from person to person as he watched doctors or nurses quietly fuss around some hospital-white mattress, fiddling with a drip hanging up near the bed and worrying at various other pieces of equipment. After a moment of squinting confusedly at the exchange in front of him, John sat up higher in his seat, withholding a groan of pain as his back straightened painfully, and he inspected the bed. The sight of the unconscious body that lay motionless on the bed sparked his memory, and suddenly he was alight with shame and worry once again, and his whereabouts and the heaviness in his chest began to make sense as the pieces fell back together in his mind.

  A hand on his shoulder pulled him abruptly from his thoughts, and John looked up to the nurse towering over him as they motioned for him to stand up. Complying thoughtlessly in automatic appeasement, John allowed the nurse to usher him halfway to the door before reconsidering and ceasing submission, turning back around to face the room he’d committed his friend to and formulating his thoughts quickly. He tried walking back towards him, overcome by a sense of responsibility, or perhaps more accurately, atonement. But then his path was obstructed by the nurse and he found himself almost pleading to them.

  ‘No, I’m a doctor, please-’ he tried.

  ‘I know, Doctor Watson,’ they replied patiently. ‘But you’re not currently hospital staff and Sherlock’s condition is quite severe, he-’

  ‘Please, he’s my friend…’

  ‘Doctor Watson,’ they said sternly enough to catch John’s attention. ‘I assure you, Sherlock is under good hands. He’ll be fine.’

  John opened his mouth to speak, but the look the nurse fixed on him was enough to convince him to defer. He let them escort him back to the hallway, their parting sympathy ringing through his mind as they walked back into the room to attend his friend, shutting the door behind them and distancing John and his only chance at reparation.

 

  John’s head rested back against the wall, the cold radiating off the pale wall stinging slightly into the back of his crown. He resisted closing his eyes, not eager to capitulate to sleep again. Instead, he stared unseeingly at the white wall standing indignantly across from him, his gaze unwaveringly vacant and his mind whirring lethargically through his thoughts.

 

   _I don’t wanna let go_

   _I know I’m not that strong._

The first time Sherlock had left had been the single worst thing John had ever experienced.

  He could still remember the days and nights after. For weeks, he could barely move more than what was required to drag himself to therapy once a week, allowing one very sympathetic and moved Mrs. Hudson to supply him food, and apologising extensively for not being able to pay the bills, to which she’d consistently dismissed as unimportant, instead opting to fuss over his health or the undignfied state of the flat.

  Then it was the funeral, and he was standing by an empty grave, talking to the superfluous gravestone, begging for a wish he never expected to be granted, and all of a sudden he couldn’t face returning home, seeing the flat empty, hollow, without its nucleus to fill it with life and purpose. And by the next week, he’d hired people to pack and move out his boxes, sent a cheque to Bakers St for all the unpaid rent and grocery costs accumulated since, and didn’t return for another two years.

 

  He’d tried to tell himself that he was following Ella’s advice, or that by staying away he was doing the right thing for himself and everyone he’d known from his life with Sherlock. But the truth kept weighing him down, nagging at the back of his mind, pulling and tugging the closer he got, physically and mentally, to the front door adorn with elegant gold writing and knocker, that had once lead home.

  He’d always felt responsible for Sherlock’s supposed death, and not wholly irrationally, the way Ella had implied on the few occasions he’d inadvertently or obliquely brought it up. Though obviously not alone, that knowledge and guilt had been enough to keep him from returning to his past, while also refraining him from moving on from it completely. He’d been stuck. Fixed in that state for so long it had almost driven him mad with self-loathing; the constant reminder that he was in some way motivation for his best friend to kill himself.

  By the time Sherlock returned and renounced that affliction, John was torn and broken in ways he wasn’t even sure Sherlock could repair. But regardless, it was too late for him to try, and John found himself keeping to commitments he hadn’t ever really wanted to make: some substitute safe enough to keep him from ever feeling that pain and guilt all over again.

 

  His luck in life had stopped being funny long before the day she turned out to be a liar. The situation so far removed from humour that he couldn’t help but smile, perhaps because of the unpleasant irony, or perhaps out of absolute despair.

  And then he was blamed for it, or at least he felt blamed for it, and he was fucking _angry_ , because no one -especially not the man who’d let him grieve, guilt-ridden and longing, for two fucking years- had the right to tell him he was responsible for someone else’s past, or for unknowingly choosing someone that complicated, when all he’d ever wanted from her was simplicity.

  And he knew that had Sherlock’s heart not been broken -literally- he would have done more; gotten angrier, louder and more violent; outraged by his unbroken pattern of betrayal. But it hadn’t been the right time, especially considering the doctors were rushing up the stairs to come to his friend’s aid as he was slowly dying, and there were more important things to focus on, like getting him back to the reassuring safety of the hospital he’d stupidly abandoned just to reveal the truth.

  So instead, he pushed down the anger and moved on like he always did, and was always expected to do.

 

  It took John three more years to find a reasonable enough excuse to get properly angry.

  For the same reason his wife had lied to him and let him down, she’d ended up dead. Sherlock had let him down by not keeping her safe. He’d let John down by not coming after him afterwards. John had let down his daughter by not being a proper father. Sherlock had let him down by giving him a false sense of hope.

  Sherlock had let him down by lying about Culverton Smith. Sherlock had let him down by getting excessively high. Sherlock had let him down by holding out that scalpel. Sherlock had let him down by breaking all his promises. Sherlock had let him down. Mary had let him down. He’d let himself down. Everyone let him down, and he was _angry._

  Years of blame and self-hatred and guilt and shame and anger culminated into one moment, and for the first time since fighting at literal war, he let himself go of all consequences, and he hit him. He hit the one person he loved most, over and over again; hit him hard.

  And he didn’t stop when he’d fallen to the ground in defeat and submission. Didn’t stop when his vision was so red with anger he could barely see. Didn’t stop when he knew he’d gone well past what had been deserved.

  And so he didn’t stop when the shaking, bleeding figure rose slowly from the ground and spoke, reaching out to him as though he were still the one who needed comforting (-maybe he had been). ‘John…’

  But John shook his head, fury still clouding his mind, his thoughts still racing, his mind still full of insincerely harsh words. And then he spoke, regretting it almost simultaneously.

  ‘Go. And don’t ever come back.’

  And he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this took so long to write because I was worried about the medical stuff behind it. I mean -there's only so long you can go letting a highly trained doctor zone out in a daze throughout every medical-talk scene, before it gets a bit ridiculous, but, I think I managed to maneuver around it effectively enough this time.  
> Anyway, I apologise if I can't do that in the future chapters, even though I get it's a bit farfetched for a doctor to not comment on any of the medical sides of things... I just don't know enough to be able to write about it.  
> But anyway, thanks for reading, and I hope to see you next chapter!


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